


The King of Me

by werpiper



Series: in the icing: Layers side stories [6]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bree - Freeform, Can be read as M/M or Genderfuck, Coming of Age, Culture Shock, Dancing, Drinking, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Fireworks, First Time, Hobbit Culture, Hobbiton, Kissing, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Nonbinary Dwarves, Other, Slow Burn, Smut, Song Lyrics, Sword Dancing, celebration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-09 01:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4328334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werpiper/pseuds/werpiper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hundred years before the Quest, two young exiles from Erebor are living among other Free People.  They find some reasons to celebrate.</p><p>(Nominally a prequel to "Layers"; works fine as a standalone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bree

**Author's Note:**

> For the Dworin corner, because you are awesome and I am secretly one of you, with love from the littlest Nwaling.
> 
> NOW WITH FABULOUS ART BY HATTEDHEDGHOG! LOOK AT PRECIOUS BB!THORIN!! <3
> 
>  

Bree was a good city for work. Rangers came in from the North, in need of arms and light armor, and Thorin found trade crafting swords -- more profitable, and perhaps more worthy, than mending pots and shoeing horses. It was too peaceable a place for Dwalin to be hired as a warrior or even a guard. But his strong back and tireless strength was always in demand, loading and unloading in the marketplace, helping to mend buildings and bridges and roads. That winter was easier than so many past had been, with plenty of food and a big-enough room that the Men rented cheap as fit for only one. Every market-day they bought little gifts, for siblings and parents, cousins and teachers and old friends. Otherwise they hoarded their coin. When the weather eased enough to walk the roads, they would rejoin their kin.

Thorin turned eighty in January. There was no opportunity for a coming-of-age celebration fit for a prince, with no family or kingdom in evidence. Dwalin presented Thorin with a gift he'd crafted in secret, trading the brightsmith for tools and materials by building him a new stone hearth -- bronze hairclasps embossed with thorn and ravens. Thorin smiled as he took them, and there was a little regal lift to his head as Dwalin arranged his hair into the patterns of a celebrant and an adult. When he faced the mirror, though, he gasped -- he had not expected the crown-braid, the mark of a king. "That's not right," he said, vanity and humility and consternation at war in his voice. "I'm not --"

"You're my king and I'll mark you thus," said Dwalin, interrupting. He'd expected this, he'd planned what to say. "We're a kingdom of two here, and you're of age to rule. Shut up and put on your cloak -- it's snowing, and I won't have done right if we're home before dawn."

King or not, Thorin was either secretly pleased by the braid, or used to obeying Dwalin as his elder. He stared in the mirror another long moment, then did fetch his cloak. Dwalin led the way to the tavern, and for the first time he did not stop Thorin from drinking past his second pint of Mannish ale. The crowd was not a rowdy one over dinner -- partridge and potatoes, worthy of full attention. But afterwards, when Dwalin had switched to cider and Thorin chose to try fire-water, a little group started singing and whistling and pounding on the long table. A woman -- or was she a child, just a little thing, shorter by far than either of the dwarves? -- hopped up on the table to dance and sing:

``  
_There is an inn, a merry old inn_  
_beneath an old grey hill,_  
_And there they brew a beer so brown_  
_That the Man in the Moon himself came down_  
_one night to drink his fill...._  


Thorin had always loved music; it was one of the griefs of their current life that he had no harp to play. But Dwalin was still surprised when Thorin leapt atop the table to join the dancer. They eyed each other and stamped, then grinned and clasped hands and spun about. The woman -- she was shaped like a woman, round in the bosom and wearing a dress -- kicked up both bare furry feet, and Thorin staggered backwards. Dwalin leapt for the space, and caught them both as they fell. The whole room laughed and clapped, and another tiny, bare-faced individual -- this one dressed like a little Man in a waistcoat, but with the same distinctive feet -- was on the table in no time, picking up the lyrics where the woman had left off.

It took a moment for Dwalin to sort them out, setting Thorin and the little person upright on the bench. Thorin swayed dangerously, and Dwalin leaned in to support him. The little woman was laughing. "What a fine fall!" she said. She squinted up at them curiously. "You're not exactly Big People, are you?"

"We're dwarves," said Thorin, "and I'm a king!"

Her smile broadened and she laughed again. "I'm Ivy Goodenough, King Dwarf, and that's good enough for anyone I think!"

"Good enough for us," said Dwalin. Her cheer was infectious, and it was nice not to crook his neck to look up at somebody for once. "My name is Dwalin, and this is Thorin. He truly is a king, and it's his birthday besides."

"To the king on his birthday then! A round of honey-wine?" She beckoned to the barmaid; coin was passed and more drinks arrived. Ivy raised her glass and called out, "Long live the King!"

"Long live the King!" echoed here and there among the patrons. Thorin blushed deeply red. Dwalin grinned and clinked their glasses together, then drank, and Thorin smiled sheepishly and followed suit.

"What brings you to Bree?" asked Ivy. She had eyes as blue as Dwalin's or Thorin's own, and hair as dark, in wild curls.

"Work," said Dwalin, always their answer. Ivy cocked an eyebrow, and he added, "In these times, we're all only worth our own labor."

Ivy nodded, as if she found the answer satisfactory. "I'm here with my brothers," she said. "We sold all our preserves at the winter market, and we bought glass jars to make twice as much next year! And we'll have coin in our pockets, if we want to buy fripperies at Carnival --"

She snapped her mouth shut, as if she'd said too much, but Thorin did not notice. "What's Carnival?" he asked, leaning towards her.

It would have taken a stronger reserve than Dwalin's, or apparently Ivy's, not to answer that deep voice and piercing gaze. "Well... it's a celebration we have in our hometown. The first new moon after spring thaw, before we're all too busy with the planting. There's a market, but also dancing and a party that goes on into the night -- it's licentious, I'll tell you that! And many years the Gray Wizard comes, he's an old Man, and he has fireworks."

"Fire-works...." The fire-workings of Erebor were long gone, and probably not the kind of thing Ivy meant. But Dwalin and Thorin exchanged a long look, their eyes soft with good memories. Thorin took Dwalin's hand and squeezed it hard.

"Often," said Ivy, her voice softer now too. "You're really not Big People, are you."

"We're not," Thorin said, "though I suppose we're still bigger than you?"

"That's all right," said Ivy magnanimously. "You're big but not too big, and if you have hairy faces instead of hairy feet, who's to care? Do come to Carnival this year, if you like!" She grinned at her own boldness, beckoned to the barmaid again, and this time was brought paper and ink and a pen. "Don't tell anyone else," she whispered, "or my brothers and I will have your hides, you hear? But I'll draw you a map," she said, "and you'll be welcome for a proper holiday in the Shire!"

Dwalin accepted the map. Thorin was still listing precipitously, and Dwalin decided this was celebration enough. (On Dwalin's own coming-of-age, Balin had let him drink until dawn, and the next day was still a sharp and warning memory.) "Thank you, Ivy Goodenough," he said, standing and guiding them both in a bow deep enough to set their taller heads below hers. He hauled Thorin back to his feet. "Till we meet again in spring!"

"Till we meet again!" said Thorin. He tried to doff his hat to her, but he wasn't wearing one, and only managed to disarray his braids. Dwalin bundled him into his cloak, and let Thorin lean into him on the way out. When they were back in the drifting, swirling snow, Thorin said, "She was very pretty, wasn't she?"

Dwalin considered. "For a tiny bald thing, yes. She reminds me of your baby sister." Dis was still rather clumsy at dancing, and far too young to drink. Her cheeks were still bare and pink, and would be for some decades to come.

"Yes, little and dainty like Dis...." Thorin reached a hand into Dwalin's hair, possibly to help with his balance. "Morning-sky eyes like yours, though. And the wild dark hair, like yours before you've brushed it up in the morning." His fingers wound closer to Dwalin's scalp, stronger and steadier than they had any right to be.

"Do you like little better than Big People, then?" Dwalin asked. He hadn't heard the phrase before, but he found it precise, and he liked it.

"Perhaps," said Thorin, "but then there's also just a good size..." He lurched into Dwalin suddenly, and they both went tumbling into a snowbank. Dwalin had been prepared to carry a lax and drunken weight, but this was a well-timed attack. They wrestled for a few minutes, Thorin having the advantages of surprise and landing on top. But he really had indulged past what he was used to, and had never quite been Dwalin's caliber at fighting hand-to-hand. Soon enough Dwalin had Thorin pinned beneath him, breath coming hard and smelling like honey. One of Thorin's hands was still wrapped in Dwalin's hair, and the other now reached for his beard.

Dwalin pulled back. Thorin might not officially be too young for such entanglement anymore, but he was certainly much too drunk. Dwalin grabbed a handful of Thorin's cloak, and levered them both back to their feet. Thorin made a small sound of protest, but Dwalin dragged him along, two more streets and up the stairs to their tiny, cozy room.

Inside, Thorin fell down hard on the bed, eyes already sliding shut. Dwalin poured a glass of water, made Thorin sit up and drink it while Dwalin divested them both of boots, cloaks, weapons, and outer clothes. He unbraided Thorin's hair, setting the pretty clasps aside. Someday, he thought, he might make beard-ornaments to match; someday when Thorin had more on his face than a kitten's fur. Thorin's blue eyes were open again, pupils a little too wide, and he reached again for the braid at Dwalin's chin.

Dwalin was stock-still for a moment, as Thorin's long, strong fingers stroked the lines of the plaits. When he reached the end, he closed his fist and gave a little tug. "I'm your king now," he said, very soft and clear.

Heat flared in Dwalin's belly and his throat all at once, but Thorin's voice still carried the scent of honeyed wine. He wrapped his own hand around Thorin's, pulling harder (the heat licked across Dwalin's jaw) until he was free. "You're my king," he agreed, "and it's time to go to sleep." Not releasing Thorin's hand, he climbed around him onto the bed, settling them down as they usually slept -- on their right sides, Dwalin behind, Thorin's head pillowed over Dwalin's arm. Thorin wriggled disconcertingly, and Dwalin clamped him into place, holding him still until Thorin's heavy breath quieted into soft snores. If, then, Dwalin's hand ran through Thorin's hair a few more times -- tracing over the silky waves left behind by the braids of adulthood and kingship, the flat places where the clasps had held -- well, he'd been drinking too, and there'd be no need to remember, come the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ivy is a distant ancestor of Bilbo's, btw. Lyrics by JRR Tolkien.
> 
> (for those keeping track of my gender stuff, i've always been interested by Dis' name -- which means "woman" or "goddess" in old norse and (i happened to know) icelandic. i've decided that she's one of the few dwarves whose private bits look more like the "kindled" shape from birth and by default, which is pretty unusual -- compare to irl intersex, about 1 in 2000 births, probably less in the notably-infertile line of durin. anyway, that's why she gets the feminine pronouns by default, though she's far too young yet to be a mother; later in life, in my headcanon, both she and her wife farli bear children.)


	2. Hobbiton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carnival and cultural conflict!

The snow continued to fall, thick and silent on the town. Thorin got up only a little late and put in his own braids -- an adult's, though not a king's, clasped with Dwalin's gifts. Then he was off to the forge. Dwalin dozed in the blankets all morning, half-dreaming images of Thorin -- dancing with his hair like a king's, reaching for Dwalin's beard. He could not help tugging at it a little himself, or running his fingers through his mustache and down to his own mouth. But the snow stopped around noon, and Dwalin got up and got dressed. There was always work after snow, roads and roofs to be cleared. Dwalin liked showing off his strength to Big People, and they paid well enough for it.

By the time he had coaxed a hot meal and a hotter bath from the landlady, Thorin was in bed again, sound asleep. Dwalin moved quietly so as not to wake him. Once again, he could not resist a few slow, soft caresses of Thorin's soft locks as he fell into sleep himself. But other than that new habit of Dwalin's (which was hardly an inappropriate intimacy between two cousins who shared a bed, or even a faithful man-at-arms holding his weary king), their days continued much as before. Thorin did not encroach upon Dwalin's beard again, nor attempt to lie atop him in the street. Dwalin considered the matter more than he probably should have. Possibly it was a matter of Dwalin being the only other dwarf for at least a hundred miles. Or possibly Thorin's blood had been roused by dancing with Ivy -- he would hardly be the first dwarf to become enchanted by Men, or particularly women of Men, though Dwalin had never seen an adult of Ivy's stature before. But Thorin's desires were just that -- Thorin's -- and Dwalin halted his thoughts when they wandered in that direction. It was enough that some days he hauled fuel for Thorin's blacksmithing, that they took meals together and talked, and that Thorin laughed with him and mocked him as warmly and gently as ever. It was more than enough to hold Thorin's warm, sturdy form every night, and awaken with that silky hair fallen across his face. They were exiles among strangers, but they had honest work and each other, and Dwalin would be content.

Spring thaw came early -- just after the new moon in the middle of March. There was more work than ever, with bridges and basements requiring repair, and even guard-hire as traders set out on their routes. But without much discussion, Dwalin and Thorin began to wrap up their work. Market days they commissioned custom-sized boots, traveling gear, and food that would keep well in packs. The Great East Road -- laid by dwarves before the first sun rose, and sound as ever underfoot -- went west from Bree as far as Beleriand. The Harn Baland were along the way, and letters from family and friends spoke of trying to settle there. Ivy Goodenough's little map also began with the Great East road. That scrap lay among many other papers on the desk in the dwarves' cozy little room, and when finally every obligation was fulfilled and their packs were set, that scrap was the last thing tucked into Dwalin's outer pocket.

Oddly, "Hobbiton" did not appear on any of the other maps they had acquired. But, again without discussion, they followed Ivy's directions. They passed the Three Farthing Stone, crossed three dry bridges and one over a little green creek, and turned north into the forest just past a five-trunked maple. Neither of them was remotely certain that it was a maple, but it was the only five-trunked tree in sight. There was no road there, nor even a footpath. The dwarves looked at each other and shrugged. "Perhaps the Little People prefer to guard their privacy," said Thorin, and Dwalin laughed as they struck out into the forest.

"Dwarves can't point fingers," he said. It was true that their people had built the greatest cities of Middle-Earth, but there were always plenty of "secret" rooms and passages, more or less disguised. Finding them had been a thrillingly illicit hobby when they were youngsters in Erebor. They walked side-by-side through the spring wood, boots surprisingly silent on the soft-thawed ground. Half a mile later, a distinct settlement became visible through the leafless trees -- Bywater, according to Ivy's notes, though they did not turn back east to approach it. There were people busy there, Ivy's size or thereabouts, and similarly-scaled goats, sheep, and ponies being herded about. Dwalin found the scene through the trees pastoral and precious, but avoided saying so. He despised Big People who seemed to find dwarves childish. It was not such a problem for him and Thorin, who were both tall. But Balin (who was a stout fellow and a great warrior besides) had met with enough disrespect that Dwalin would sooner eat his own knife than call anybody "cute" just because they were small.

Just past Bywater they came across an actual road. It was not Dwarf-work, not even stone, but it rose high above ditches and seemed relatively well-maintained. They took it north, following the map. For a mile or so they walked past isolated farms. Then suddenly Thorin spotted it to the north: unmistakably the Party Field. It was dominated by a ribboned pole as tall as a tree, wrapped in a dozen bright spring colors. As they came closer, they could see great long tables set with food, and everywhere people were eating and dancing.

There were broad planks over a culvert there, and the dwarves went hesitantly across it. The music faltered and fell silent as they approached. Scores of eyes stared, mostly disapproving, judgmental, somehow prim. Dwalin set his shoulders and marched as if to a military engagement, and Thorin followed suit. They were less than twenty feet from the nearest table, and Dwalin was wondering what they were going to do when they reached it, when Ivy shot across the field, skipping and laughing loud into the silence.

"You came, you came!" she called, merry and loud. Her hands were extended, one to each, and as soon as they touched she whirled them around. Her enthusiasm was so fiery and contagious that Thorin and Dwalin were near to dancing as they went with her, and a roar of laughter bubbled up from the crowd. "Welcome to the dwarves!" she cried, "welcome the dwarf king Thorin, welcome Dwalin his friend, welcome spring!"

"Welcome spring!" chorused some voices, and the music picked up again. Ivy still danced with the dwarves, leading them, and they did their best to follow her unfamiliar steps and capers. Many of the little people laughed at them, which Dwalin hardly minded. They must make an amusing sight as well as an unfamiliar one, two big bearded dwarves in boots imitating a delicate bare-footed maid as she twirled and kicked. She put a hand on each of their shoulders to give herself some height, and clapped her feet together as she leapt. More of the little people clapped for her then, and when Dwalin could spare a glance at their faces, the majority seemed to be smiling.

After that, things went easily enough. People moved over at the table to make room for Dwalin and Thorin when Ivy sat them down, and they were passed food along with everybody else. Plenty of it -- great loaves and pastries with preserves, and all kinds of sausages. Special plates were passed over now and then -- green glass, with fresh eggs and new herbs. "To the season!" people said, and "To the season!" the dwarves replied, as if they'd done this every year of their lives. There was no wine or ale, no cider or small beer -- only green-glass pitchers of water, collected (Ivy explained) from nearby creeks after the icemelt.

As water went, it was delicious, and as the food tapered off and the dancing increased, Dwalin appreciated it more. The hobbits' dances were athletic and intricate, and would not have been best-served by intoxication. Thorin crooked an eyebrow at Dwalin, and ceremoniously drew two new-forged swords from his pack. When there was a break in the music, the two went into the dancing area, and went into a traditional weapons-dance with only their own voices and the clang of steel on steel:

_Tis not for your gold nor your silver nor yet for the gain of your gear,_  
_But we come for to take our pleasure, to welcome the incoming year. ___  
_Our folk are all fit for action with spirits and courage so bold,_  
_We were born of a noble extraction, our fathers were heroes of old...._

Thorin was panting a little, and Dwalin had a stitch in his side from so much action after too much food. But Dwalin pressed on the harder for it, and because the hobbits were starting to stamp and to cheer. Thorin grinned hard between gasps, and they made it to the final verse:

_Now you see how we try to be heroes, like fine noble heroes by birth;_  
_And to each bear as good a character as any such heroes on earth._  
_If we be as good as our fathers, may our deeds are be deserving records;_  
_And all that we ask is you witness, to see how we handle the swords!_

They threw themselves into the sparring, accompanied by clanging steel and roaring breath alone. Dwalin was better practiced and widely considered a prodigy, but the sword was Thorin's weapon, and these the work of his hands. Before three measures' time he held cold steel to Dwalin's throat, and Dwalin very slowly knelt and then lay down before him. His neck was stretched as far as it could go, and he felt the edge stir through the hairs of his beard.

The hobbits weren't cheering. They were silent, staring. A child was crying, and its mother hastened to hush it.

Dwalin saw nothing, with his cheek pressed into the dirt. But he felt suddenly wary. They were strangers here; who knew what Dwarvish custom might look like to these folk? The steel moved away, and he felt Thorin come to kneel beside him. With one hand, Thorin half-pulled, half-instructed Dwalin to kneel up as well. He did so, risking a quick glance around. Everyone was staring, and a few hobbits had come to their feet. One was hefting a heavy copper tankard as if estimating a throw. But Thorin called out, in his clear and kingly voice: "I kneel on your land at Carnival, having shown you the strength of my sword. Will Ivy Goodenough please come to stand before me?"

There were murmurs and rustlings, then Ivy running over on silent bare feet. Her eyes were wide as if she'd been fighting as well. She halted in front of them, and echoed Thorin's words: "I am Ivy, and here I stand."

Thorin bowed his head, and Dwalin did the same. "Please accept my sword," said Thorin, "in token of the craft and the strength of my people. We thank you for your kindness and your hospitality, for the welcome to share in your joy. We are a wandering folk now and poor, but we would place ourselves at your service -- yours and all your family's."

The hush lasted a moment longer, until Ivy took the hilt in both hands and raised it -- Thorin caught the guard to help her steady it; it was Man-sized for trade, almost as long as Ivy was tall. "Thank you and accepted!" she said, and a roar rushed up from the gathered crowd. It was mostly cheering, and Ivy added, "And we shall be at yours."

An elderly gentleman hurried up beside her. He bowed to the dwarves a bit awkwardly -- kneeling, they were already about his height. He was carrying a tablecloth, slightly stained, and they folded the weapon into it. "Honored," said the gentleman, holding it both arms. "On Ivy's behalf. I'm her granddad --"

Thorin dropped his head again, and Ivy added, "And he used to be Mayor, which for us might be close enough to King?" She giggled, and the old fellow managed a rusty laugh as well. "Come," she added, taking one each of Thorin's and Dwalin's hands, pulling them upwards, and calling again louder, "Come! Let's all dance in a circle around the May-pole --" (it was still the middle of April, but nobody said anything) "-- to welcome our friends and the spring!"

There was a definite cheer this time, and chairs and tables knocked back as people ran towards the ribboned pole. "Thank you," said Ivy, voice pitched beneath the crowd's, "but that wasn't strictly necessary. I only asked you here as friends, no promises were expected in turn!"

Thorin's voice stayed soft as well, but no less clear or authoritative. "We have few enough friends," he replied, "that we would give all of our best, gladly, for such as you." He smiled down at her as he stood, his rare, warm heart's smile.

Ivy laughed. "Come and dance then, my friend!" she said. "For that is our people at our best." And she led them to the tall pole, and put a ribbon in each of their hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken the liberty of hiding the end of the Bywater Road from the Great East Road during this time period (significantly pre-"The Hobbit", by hobbit reckoning anyway). Because otherwise the relative unknowness of hobbits among Free Peoples is a little harder to explain, I guess?
> 
> Lyrics tradiitonal; "Earsdon Sword Dance", modified a little for circumstance.
> 
> I thought the smut was going to happen here, but it didn't. There will be another chapter! The Dworin is running away with me...! :)


	3. And Then There'll Be Fireworks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and licentiousness. eventually :)

The dance was simple enough, and if Dwalin and Thorin had to bow very low to get under someone else's ribbon, or missed a step and looped their ribbons the wrong way, the hobbits only laughed. They laughed at each other as well, tripping up their friends. It ended with a rising roar and rush, as people dashed around to find their chosen ones. Dwalin felt a small hand take his and lead him off at a run -- it was Ivy, and Thorin leapt towards them. His forehead met Dwalin's with a resounding crack. Ivy gaped, as did other people nearby, and finally she swallowed hard and asked, "Didn't that hurt? You're supposed to do something nice, like a hug or a kiss...."

Thorin bent to touch his face to Ivy's wild curls. "It's nice for us," he said. "Dwalin's head's just emptier than most, so it makes an echo." Dwalin laughed and cuffed him for that, so Ivy laughed too. Then she turned and stretched up on her tiptoes, meeting Dwalin's eyes. He thought he saw a challenge in them, so he bent and kissed her. Her mouth was warm and sweet, and he felt her fingers tugging at his beard -- she couldn't mean anything by it, just trying to keep her balance. She let go and stepped back, eyes gleaming and grinning wide. "Licentiousness!" said Thorin mockingly, and Dwalin grinned back at him too.

"As it should be," said Ivy briskly, still smiling. "Now there'll be more food, of course." The dwarves exchanged an incredulous look, and Ivy laughed again. "I told you this was a proper Shire celebration! As for licentious behavior," she added confidentially, "The Old Took said your people were very private sorts, and also that you preferred to be under stone. She suggested a space in our town's cheese-caves -- if you don't mind the smell of cheese? They've just taken loads out for the party, and of course we haven't started any new yet this year, so there's plenty of room."

"That's very kind of her," said Thorin, as Dwalin wondered how these small, hidden, unknown people came to know so much about dwarves. "And of course we don't mind cheese! We've spent many nights in far worse company," which was more true than bore discussion.

"I'll show you where it is," she said, "and you can leave your things there. The festival will go on all night, of course. Singing and dancing, fresh water and food, and, yes, licentiousness! So if you come across anybody, well, don't think or do anything untoward -- for once the fire's lit at Carnival, anything agreeable to those who do it is good and right." She looked at them a bit skeptically, as if expecting them to differ. Dwalin nodded, trying to look as serious as his brother could. Ivy nodded back and continued, "After sunrise, there'll be another market, and of course you're welcome to buy or barter or sell. Not that we have much need for swords here -- I'll give yours back, if that was only a gesture?"

Thorin looked offended, but Dwalin was still thinking about Balin, so he interrupted: "My dear Ivy, the kings of dwarves are honest and proud in every word and deed. That sword is yours now, and the service as Thorin said." Thorin's eyes widened at Dwalin speaking so, but he managed to compose himself and nod.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply --!" Ivy's eyes had gone wide too. "And I was sincere as well," she added. "But if you can sharpen a plough-blade, we've considerably more need of that. We'll be starting on the fields in two days."

"Alas, I cannot," said Thorin. "I only rented tools and space in Bree, and what I made to take is sized for larger folk. Unless someone here fancies an outsized belt-buckle? But we have some coin, and friends and family who would appreciate souvenirs of our adventures." They were back by the tables now, and great platters were being placed along them. They picked up their traveling packs and followed Ivy to the caves, which had a round white-wooden door and overlooked a little clear creek. Inside were the cheese-aging rooms smelling of yeast and pine shelving behind more round doors, and further back, Ivy told them, storage spaces full of "mathoms". She showed them where the oil-lamps were kept, and they found a room the Old Took had apparently set up for dwarves.

Or perhaps she had been thinking of kings. There was no bed as such, but feather ticks spread several yards wide and over knee-high, covered with thick furs and ornately pieced quilts. There were beeswax candles smelling sweet as Ivy lit them, and a set of ewer and basin; a stack of fluffy folded towels. There was even a low and tidy arrangement of pretty stones -- some beautiful, some valuable -- set on a silver tray, in apparent respect to someone's idea of dwarven aesthetics. "You can bathe in the river," said Ivy, "or if you want hot water, come up to one of our smials -- mine for sure, it's got a yellow door with marigolds, or the Tooks', which is north of the Party Field and has stags carved on the lintel." She regarded the dwarves, then said very quickly, "Does it suit?"

"It's beautiful," said Thorin. One of his hands was on the rough stone wall, and his face was peaceful. "We've rarely been anywhere so beautiful, or so thoughtfully set up, since our own home was lost." He shook himself a little, as if he had not meant to say so much. "Ivy," he went on, "would it be impolite of us to just, well, stay here for now? We've already eaten heartily, and we've travelled a way with our loads. We'll gladly come to your market, and even help sharpen your ploughs, if tools can be rented or lent...."

"I'll find out," Ivy promised. "And I'll bid you a good sweet night, though I should also remind you that Carnival should be passed in joy. We hobbits won't rest until after tomorrow evening, and then have a day off before we start our spring labors in earnest -- but I know you'll be back on the road. So do as suits you best here," she paused, as if she might say more. But she straightened her shoulders and said only, "Thank you for coming to Carnival, and sharing in our welcome of the spring."

"Welcome spring," chorused the dwarves, having learned the formality. They walked Ivy back to the door, watched as she climbed soft-footed up the stairway from the bank. The sun was just starting to set, striking the ripples in the creek to copper. Across the way there were unplowed fields, and a little wood growing behind. "It's a good place, this," said Thorin. He sat down, picked up a pebble and plunked it down into the creek.

"Aye," said Dwalin, sitting down beside him. He wasn't particularly tired -- the walk from Bree had been easy enough, and they'd eaten well, and hardly even danced. Perhaps being kingly was wearying. He unlaced his boots, shucked off his traveling clothes. "I'll have a swim," he announced unnecessarily. The day was still warm and cold water would be bracing. Dwalin had grown fond of Man-sized tubs in Bree, and the thought of squeezing himself into a hobbit-sized one held little appeal, even for the sake of hot water. He went down the bank in three long strides, and dove entirely under in the middle of the creek. The current was swift, tugging at his hair and beard. He held his breath and turned over, saw the sun rippling gold across the surface.

When he burst up again, gasping, Thorin was watching him with a strangely shuttered expression. Dwalin cocked an eyebrow. Staying had been Thorin's idea. Was he missing the prospect of feasting, or dancing, or licentiousness? Or was he really just tired for some reason? Dwalin waded back and climbed out, sat down beside Thorin again, and began searching his pockets for a comb. "You're dripping all over your things," said Thorin after a moment. "Here, have mine."

Thorin's voice was tense, too, and his knuckles almost white around his own comb's wooden handle. Dwalin paused, searching Thorin's face. His expression still gave nothing away, but his face was framed by the four square braids of an adult, clasped with the beads Dwalin made. Dwalin made a sudden, possibly rash decision, and instead of taking the comb he turned his back on Thorin, shifting until he was nearly in the younger dwarf's lap. "Yes, my king," he said, in as docile a voice as he could manage.

Thorin didn't answer right away, though he took a lock of Dwalin's hair and started untangling it from the bottom. When he spoke, his voice was diffident. "I'm not the king," he said. "My grandfather is, and my father king-in-waiting. I'm only an heir, as you are yourself."

Was that the problem? Did Thorin think Dwalin had mocked him, with the crowning braid those few months ago? He tried to turn around to read Thorin's face again, but Thorin grabbed him closer to the scalp, and Dwalin couldn't move. "This isn't Thror's kingdom," he answered reasonably. "And anyway, you're the king of me."

Thorin snorted, fingers tightening. His nails raked over Dwalin's scalp, which Dwalin found he liked far too much. "What does that mean?"

He'd never thought to put it to words, and it was hard to be eloquent with Thorin touching him. So he closed his hand over Thorin's smaller one, curled his body in closer. He wrapped an arm around Thorin's neck, pulled their foreheads together -- but softly now, as gentle as Thorin had been with little Ivy. "I follow you," he said finally. "I'm at your command. My treasure is yours." These were formal phrases, and inadequate. Dwalin's fingers clenched, partly in frustration, partly to feel them entwining Thorin's. "Anyway. Thorin. I _love_ you." Still gently, he tilted his neck, put his mouth on Thorin's own.

The sound Thorin made could have meant anything, but the strength with which he clung to Dwalin was clear and unmistakeable. Dwalin opened his mouth, but Thorin's remained clamped shut, though he pressed back hard against Dwalin's lips and teeth. Dwalin nuzzled him, trying to keep the contact gentle. Meanwhile he let go of Thorin's hand, stroking instead through the soft new beard under the king's jaw. Thorin made another sound, and long dark lashes fell down over his eyes. Dwalin smiled -- he couldn't help it -- and slipped his thumb towards Thorin's mouth, hoping to persuade those clamped lips a bit apart.

It worked, only Thorin turned his face away from Dwalin's, closing his mouth around Dwalin's thumb and sucking. His cheeks hollowed with the force and his eyes fluttered open, blue and deep as the evening sky. Their gazes locked. Heat slid through Dwalin from Thorin's mouth and eyes, pooling in his center and throbbing in his hammer. "Love you," he repeated, leaning in. He bit lightly at the corner of Thorin's mouth, then slowly up to the high cheekbone. The silky braids felt cool on his face as he nuzzled through, and when he licked Thorin's ear, Thorin groaned and bit down.

"Ouch." Dwalin managed to keep his voice low. It didn't really hurt much, and there was a fine and fascinating trembling to Thorin's teeth as he loosened them. "I like it," Dwalin murmured confidentially, "but you want to ask someone, first." Thorin groaned again, and Dwalin nipped his ear. "How'd you like that?" he whispered, setting a good example.

"Oh," Thorin managed, "so much," or so Dwalin thought, given that Thorin's mouth was still full of Dwalin's thumb. He tested the idea by nipping again, and Thorin's voice went wordless again. Immensely pleased, Dwalin tried to push another finger into Thorin's mouth, but Thorin seized his wrist and pulled away. "So I have to ask," Thorin whispered. "Why are we doing this now?"

Dwalin drew back, suddenly aware that he was naked, wet, hard, and pressing himself into his cousin and king. He stared at Thorin for a moment, his high-boned face, his wide blue eyes. "I want to," Dwalin said, trying not to be embarrassed, not to look away. "Do you?"

Thorin's fingers clenched around Dwalin's wrist. "Yes," he said. His voice was small and unconvincing, and Dwalin's heart leapt sideways. "Why not before, then?"

"What?" Thorin didn't answer, and Dwalin said the first thing that came to mind: "I thought you wanted Ivy."

"What?" They stared at each other, and Dwalin moved fractionally back. "Why?"

"Well." Dwalin marshaled his thoughts. "The night you came of age. You were drunk, do you remember? You danced with her, and on the way home you reached for my beard." Thorin was still staring, so Dwalin clarified, "I'm.... sensitive about my beard. Many dwarves are," he added defensively.

Thorin snorted. "I bet Ivy's not." Dwalin huffed a laugh.

"No bet," he replied. "But you'd been dancing with her, and then, well. You were drunk. It's no good taking advantage."

"I was of age," said Thorin, sounding like Balin in debate. "And I thought my intentions were clear. I wasn't _much_ drunk -- you're too good a guardian for that."

Dwalin shrugged; he could hardly be said to be behaving well as guardian at this point. "I thought my intentions were clear now," he said. "I thought you were enjoying them. Even if it's only licentiousness, for the Little People's Carnival -- I do love you, Thorin, and I want --" He broke off, and Thorin's hand steadied on his wrist. "I won't push myself on you, lad. Because I have been your guardian, and I'm the only other dwarf you've been close to in a year. There's no shame if you do want Ivy. If I'm any judge, she'd have you. At least tonight."

Thorin shrugged back. "She might. But I hardly know her, and I've been very close to you for a year." The blue gaze raked slowly down Dwalin's body, then back up to his eyes. "And I still don't know what you want." His voice had gone pensive. "I don't even know what I want. You really were a good guardian."

Dwalin choked. His own coming-of-age and introduction to his passions had been both formal and frustrating, and he was very glad to have those times past. Perhaps they were not yet past enough. "I never meant to guard you from yourself."

"Let's say you haven't, then." Thorin set his comb down, reached slowly and deliberately for Dwalin's beard. He twined his fingers in, quite close to Dwalin's chin, and tugged. "Kiss me?" His voice was part a challenge, another part plea.

"Open your mouth," said Dwalin, and he was pleading too. Thorin obeyed. Dwalin leaned in and Thorin tugged again. The heat rushed back through him, and Dwalin kept moving. Their lips met, then their tongues, then Dwalin's bare chest hit Thorin's clothed one and pushed him slowly down. When Thorin's back met the stone, Dwalin arranged himself atop -- between Thorin's spread knees, one hand beside Thorin's shoulder to support his weight. He let himself rut a bit against Thorin's pants, then dropped down into another kiss.

Kissing Thorin, Dwalin found, was a singular experience. There was no art to it yet, only tremendous force of strength and will as Thorin opened beneath him, both hands clenched around Dwalin's neck. His jaw worked, tongue quick to explore and teeth quick to bite. But a few of Dwalin's fingers in his new beard stilled him to shivering, and Dwalin stroked his cheeks, slowing the kiss and making it gentle. When Dwalin touched the bare skin on Thorin's throat, the young king groaned again, and this time Dwalin's body shook. Thorin dropped his voice to a soothing murmur, and his hands to stroke along Dwalin's shoulders. Dwalin pulled away, and Thorin asked, "Are you -- is this all right?"

"Nothing better," Dwalin ground out. He was already panting. His previous "instruction in the passionate crafts" seemed worlds and ages behind, though, and Thorin beneath him fierce and demanding as a fight. He rolled off to one side, trying to slow his breaths. "D'you, d'you want to move back to that bed?"

"Bed?" Thorin sounded like he had forgotten what the word meant. "Not unless you do? This is fine..." He turned on his side to face Dwalin, his cheeks flushed dark in the sunlight now fading from outside their cave. One of his hands reached out, then hovered between them, uncertain.

Dwalin seized it and kissed it, licking into the sensitive spaces between Thorin's fingers, nuzzling through the fine dark hairs on the back. His other hand seized on his own cock, giving himself a desperate tug. Thorin's breath hitched, and Dwalin flicked his eyes up to see Thorin staring down, transfixed. He loosened his fingers deliberately, slowed down his motions to give Thorin a better view. "Want to be naked with me?" he whispered. "It's not comfortable being hard inside your clothes...."

Thorin's eyes shot back up, and Dwalin slowed down the kissing, making a show of that now too. He released his cock with some regret, reaching instead for the tie at the top of Thorin's shirt. The jacket and vest were already open, Dwalin tugged at the knot, feeling Thorin's body heat beneath it, waiting with an enquiring look. But he did not untie it until Thorin murmured "Yes."

"Good." He swarmed back on top, yanked Thorin's shirt up so he could sit with hammer and stones against Thorin's bare middle, and tugged the ties apart. Thorin's chest was as softly furred as his face, his paps poking up pink against pale skin. Dwalin could not resist pausing to tweak one between his fingers, and drop forward to nip the other as Thorin gasped. The sound was immensely pleasing, and Dwalin let his teeth linger. Thorin writhed beneath him, also a pleasure; the hair low on his belly thicker but still silky, caressing the underside of Dwalin's cock. "So good," Dwalin murmured, letting his voice and enunciation move into Thorin's sensitive skin. For a moment it was almost like wrestling as Thorin thrashed, but Dwalin was used to that, and rode it out unthinking. "So good...."

"Burn you, Dwalin, you said _naked_ " -- Thorin's voice began thunderous, went thready with need -- "and you're right it's uncomfortable, what are you trying to _do_ " --

Dwalin kissed his mouth into silence again, hands stroking gently down Thorin's arms, his sides. "Hush," he said, reaching down to open Thorin's trousers. "Making it take longer. You'll come harder for it, you'll see."

Thorin might have had more objections, but Dwalin took him in hand. One long stroke, not too quick or hard, and Thorin's eyes were glassy and his jaw hanging loose, as if he'd forgotten how to speak. Possibly he had, thought Dwalin, as he applied a second caress before reaching to divest Thorin of boots and socks, trousers and smallclothes. Just as well. He kissed Thorin's instep, formally, while reaching up to tumble his stones in one hand. He left the hand there, gently cupping, and kissed his way slowly and softly back up the insides of Thorin's legs, head turning to pay equal attention to each side. Thorin began thrashing about as soon as Dwalin went past his knees, but that was all right; Dwalin did not feel hindered, so he allowed it. But as soon as Dwalin reached the apex, and pressed a reverential kiss to Thorin's forge, he stilled to trembling again. "Dwalin... I can't, I --" He started near a whisper, ended near a wail.

"It's all right," said Dwalin, not even knowing what he was being reassuring about. He raised his head, slipped Thorin's hard, straining hammer into his mouth. It felt hot and malleable as iron gone to red, and he sucked long and hard and glad. Not three breaths later Thorin was spending, thrashing again, wailing without words. Dwalin held him in place, swallowed, licking softly until Thorin was still. Then he hauled himself up so that they were lying face to face, the deep blue of his eyes gone to black in the shadows. He pulled Thorin into his arms, and the king buried his face against Dwalin's chest.

"I love you too," Thorin whispered, "it's not that you're my cousin, it's not even that you made me... made me come, Dwalin.... oh sweet Mahal, Dwalin, I love you so much..." Dwalin kissed the mussed-up, silky tangles at the tops of Thorin's braids, but he did not quiet. "You're a hero," said Thorin. "A warrior, so strong and so beautiful, and when you touch me it's so _gentle_ at the same time, it's..."

Dwalin stopped him then with a kiss on the mouth. "You're my king and I love you, Thorin," he murmured after, seriously. "I'll be whatever I can for you. Know that. Now and always."

Thorin nodded. His face was wet, tears or sweat or both, and Dwalin kissed his eyes and cheeks. Dwalin's cock was still rampant, and he might have liked to be a bit less than gentle just then. But Thorin was stroking him, hesitantly, winding his fingers into Dwalin's thick pelt, and he tried to make himself lie still. But when Thorin's touch ghosted over his pap, he could not withhold a growl from his throat nor keep his back from arching. Thorin did it again, and although Dwalin restrained himself a little better the second time, his reaction was enough to provoke Thorin to say wonderingly, "You like that?"

Dwalin almost laughed, let himself rut against Thorin's thigh instead. "I love that," he affirmed. "Would you like to," he considered, "touch me like that, and I'll have myself off?"

"Could I, would you like it if," Thorin's voice was muffled against Dwalin's chest, and he repeated the touch before tipping his head back and asking, "could I have you in my mouth, like you did me?"

The soft words shot heat down Dwalin's belly, and he huffed and ran his fingers through Thorin's soft beard again. He wanted to laugh, and he wanted to drag Thorin's head down and fuck him hard. Instead he said, "I'd love that," with deep sincerity. And, knowing himself, he added, "Let's turn so you're lying on top of me. I'll want to move, and I don't want to choke you."

Thorin huffed back, but allowed Dwalin to rearrange them. They were nearly of a height -- a novelty, in Dwalin's experience. He lay on his back, and Thorin's half-hard hammer poked into his beard as Thorin took his first few experimental licks. "Use your hands, too," Dwalin advised, took Thorin inside his mouth again.

"What, ohhh..." Whatever clarification Thorin might have wanted was lost in a groan of pleasure. Dwalin did not care; no advice was worth more than Thorin's cock turning hot and lively on his tongue. Nor was there anything lacking in Thorin's two-handed grip, his hot mouth gently kissing, his breath wafting cool across the wet. Dwalin schooled himself to stillness, even as he opened his own jaw and throat, allowing Thorin to thrust at will. He wrapped an arm up behind each of Thorin's knees, to keep him from gaining too much purchase, and to feel his strength as he tried to kick. That might have been enough to bring him to climax, but then Thorin was crying out again, the vibration buzzing up Dwalin's spine from his cock to his eyes. Thorin bucked hard and spent again, so far back that Dwalin felt it without tasting, and Dwalin followed helplessly, his length lapped by Thorin's soft tongue and silken hair.

They lay clasped together, panting. Dwalin was dizzy with pleasure, held securely against the stone by Thorin's boneless weight. When he felt like he could move, he lifted Thorin off, rolling him gently onto his side. "I'll get us water," he said, pressing a kiss to Thorin's forehead.

"I'll go with you -- I should wash --" Thorin lolled in Dwalin's arms.

"In a minute," said Dwalin, smiling. He found his canteen in his jacket, dropped out of the cave and down to the water. He knelt and let it flow over him, cool on his sweaty skin. The first stars were peeking out overhead. Then suddenly there was a soft musical noise, and a great bouquet of purple lights rose high in the sky and hung there, twinkling like amethysts. "Thorin?" Dwalin called. "Thorin, hey!"

Thorin came to the door, stood there for a moment looking down. For a moment Dwalin was entirely distracted from the sky, seeing only Thorin standing strong and tall, his hair wild around him. Another note chimed, this one higher, and golden curls like brightsmith's work wound up towards the stars. "What is it?" asked Thorin urgently, and Dwalin saw a sword in his hand.

"It's all right, leave that," he called. "Come down here. It's the fireworks, you'll want to see."

Thorin descended, and they sat together, bodies warming each other in the cool water. The music sounded again and again, and lights climbed shining into the sky. They were shaped like crystals, like castles, like flowers and stalactites; they fell down like burning leaves into the dark. There was a ripple that sounded like laughter and flames that darted like swift birds, then a cry like the rush of an army and a fall like silver spears. Finally there was a low rumble that lit a cloud like embers, then a great roar and the red-gold rush of a dragon.

Dwalin and Thorin came shouting to their feet, hardly hearing each other through heard the clatter and bang. The dragon-shape climbed the sky and disappeared hissing into its own smoke. The dwarves remained, side-by-side in the murmuring creek, and the faint sounds of hobbits cheering drifted to them on the wind.

Then their arms were around each other, and they might have been laughing or crying, or trying to calm one another. Together they climbed up the bank, entered the caves, and closed the door. In the dark they made their way to the back room, with its great feather-beds and pillows and quilts, and climbed in without letting go. Someone was shivering, though it might not be possible to have said whom.

"You are my king and my beloved, and I will stand beside you anywhere," Dwalin whispered, at length, into the dark.

"I'll be your king, and love you," Thorin answered, "and someday, I swear, I'll try to take you home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks y'all for reading, and for the extraordinary patience it took to see it through!
> 
> to those who haven't encountered this headcanon of mine before, dwarves are perfectly comfortable on plain stone. beds are an affectation adopted from the influence of Men. the fireworks are largely lifted from a later century, the "long-expected party" of lotr.
> 
> this chapter title from the concluding book in suzette haden elgin's wonderful "ozark trilogy".


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